Cuba 15 (22 page)

35

The week went by with me not talking to Dad and Dad becoming very interested in the newspaper or the ceiling or his watch. We had never feuded like this. The Friday night before my
quince,
at dinner, Mom watched us studiously ignore each other. By the end of the meal, a new determination shone from her face.

The next afternoon, I sat with Mark, watching the Cubs game on WGN, trying to take my mind off the last few nights—and the next few days.

“You should’ve picked baseball as the theme for your keent-sy,” Mark commented.

Not a bad idea.

“Then Abuela could’ve sewed you a Cubs uniform.”

“She didn’t sew anything, dummy.”

“Whatever.” Mark turned back to the TV.

It was one of those perfect spring days at Wrigley Field. Pennants waved on the scoreboard. The ivy was starting to creep in over the outfield wall. Four guys in the left-field bleachers had taken off their shirts, each chest smeared with a big blue letter: C-U-B-S. You just knew it was May. This was my kind of tradition.

I sighed. The world would be a better place if we could live by the rules of baseball. Where things are orderly and you know that strike two comes after strike one.

Dad walked in during the top half of the fourth, as the Cardinals were batting, and sat down in his chair, an unlit cigar in his hand. “Who’s winning?” he asked.

I let Mark answer, “Cards, three-zip,” and went on watching.

Dad cleared his throat. “
Oye,
Violet.”

I edged my eyes his way.

“Your mother spoke to me again about coming to your party.” He rotated the band around his cigar several times. “I want you to remember that this all came about because you lied to your mother and me. And while it is against my better judgment,” he stated, “I said yes, I’ll go.”

He’d show, then.

I blew out a little breath. “It wouldn’t be the same without you, Dad,” I admitted.

He grew more serious. “But your mother and I expect you to be strictly honest with us in the future. And I want to have a talk with you about these peace organizations. I’m not saying I’ll like what they have to say . . . ,” he warned.

It couldn’t be that easy. “But—will you dance with me? At the party?”

He looked at me a moment. “Sí.”

A smile snuck past my lips.

“But only because your grandmother and grandfather have put so much into this. And many of your relatives. And because your mother asked me to.” He stuck the cigar in his mouth.

“Are those the only reasons?”

He removed the cigar. “Well . . . it’s true, Violeta, that you are growing up. I guess I have to face facts. And while you and I may not always agree on everything, you are entitled to your own opinion.”

I knew those were Mom’s words, but as my eyes widened, he added, “Besides . . . I wouldn’t want to miss my daughter’s one and only
quinceañero,
would I?” He smiled.

I did too.

“And another thing . . .”

“What?”

“Well . . .” He took a deep breath. “Maybe we should talk a little bit about Cuba sometime. You and me and Mark.”

I goggled at him. “We—should?”

“If there’s something special you want to know.”

“That’s be great, Dad.” I went over and hugged him.

Mark quit pretending he wasn’t listening. “Do I still have to go to the keent-sy?” he asked.

“Yes!” Dad and I both said.

We went on watching the game together, but inside I marveled. The tide had turned again, this time with Mom’s help, I was sure. She had stuck up for me with Dad, had pushed him a little farther than ever before. School was good for Mom. She was . . . braver now. Maybe it would rub off on me.

That night, the phone rang. It was Janell.

“Hang on a second while I get Leda.” She put me on hold. “Okay. There.”

“Hello? Am I on?” came Leda’s voice.

“I’m using the three-way calling,” Janell said.

“Cool,” I replied, suddenly nervous, realizing that the next time I saw them would be onstage.

“We just wanted to wish you luck,” my friend since the first grade said.

“That’s right, Paz,” seconded Leda. “It’s time for your passage from ‘the girl onto the woman.’ ”

I grinned, remembering where she’d gotten the phrase. I was done with
Quinceañero for the Gringo Dummy;
I’d graduated and given the book to Leda, who’d finally gotten her period. Beth and Niles had agreed to celebrate Leda’s
quince
in August, with a Norse twist. And I thought my ceremony was nontraditional.

“So how are you doing?” she asked. “Got the jitters?”

My stomach caved in all over again. “Thanks a lot! Hey, guess what? Dad’s decided to dance with me after all.”

“That’s great news,” said Janell. “Look, Violet, whether your dad’s there or not, we just wanted to let you know, don’t worry about tomorrow. We’ll be there for you.”

“Yeah,” Leda added. “We’ve got your back.”

My stomach was flattered. “Gee, thanks, guys. I—don’t know what to say. I guess I’ll just go out there tomorrow and die trying.”

“You will not die trying! You will . . .
triumph
trying,” corrected Janell. “You can do it, woman.”

“That’s right,” said Leda. “You remember your speech, don’t you?”

I started to wail again, but she cut in. “Of course you do. You’ve practiced it like crazy. Now, you go out there tomorrow, and kick some big, hairy
quince
ass!”

“We’ll see you tomorrow, girlfriend,” said Janell.

“Hasta mañana,”
I said, and hung on to the phone a minute, waiting until I heard both clicks before putting it down.

36

On Sunday morning, tendrils of bacon smoke and the smell of frying bananas climbed the stairs to my room and tapped on the door. “You better come on in my kitchen . . .
’cause it’s going to be raining outdoors . . . ,”
Robert Johnson sang to me from the downstairs tape player. I stretched and got out of bed quick. Took another sniff. Alert the media: Dad was cooking.

Even Abuelo was up before me; the main cast of the Loco Family greeted me from the kitchen table, saving the Death Throne for me. I slipped into Dad’s chair while he finished making breakfast.

“Cuban pancakes, my favorite. Thanks,” I said, accepting a glass of juice from Mom. Chucho followed her around the kitchen, then returned to his post next to the chef.

Dad’s signature dish made rare appearances in the Paz kitchen, always greeted with near-rabid anticipation. Fried-banana-and-bacon pancakes, topped with whipped butter, toasted coconut flakes, and a healthy ladle of “Señora Butterworth’s.”
¡Ay, ay, ay!

Or, as Abuelo said after his first bite, giving a little drumroll,
“¡Riquísimo!”

The salty bacon plays perfectly off the fried-in-butter banana bits, prompting us all to wonder at one time or another why we’ve never seen the dish on the menu in fancy restaurants. That may be because we don’t visit fancy restaurants much. Or it may be because the American Heart Association would outlaw the combination. In any case, Dad claims it’s the only thing he can cook.

“And how is the
quinceañera
today?” asked my grandmother, already dressed in a skirt and blouse and made up as if the Shriners’ Circus were in town.

“Estoy muy bien, gracias,”
I said, sticking a finger in the pool of syrup on Mark’s plate and tasting it.

“Hey—!” he began, then noticed my look. “Dear sister,” he added. “All ready for your keent-sy?”

I nodded, mainly ready for pancakes.

Mom, next in line, took her plate from beside the stove and sat down. “Someone has to call the florist’s hotline to check on the Sunday delivery, or they might forget. Mark, please take Chucho for his run when you’re finished. And be dressed for church by eleven!”

Father Leone was going to have a coronary: The entire Paz clan would be at Mass at St. Edna’s today, including my aunt Luz, who was staying with an old grade-school friend nearby.

Dad, decked out in his seldom-used I HATE TO COOK apron, brought my short stack to the table and set the plate before me. I started to switch seats, but he said, “No, no. You eat there, and enjoy. I’ll stand.” Even Dad knew better than to tackle the Death Throne. He retreated to the stove to flip some more pancakes.

I poured on some syrup and took a bite. “God, Dad, these are great!”

“I made them special for the
quinceañera,
” he said, smiling proudly, though whether over my
quince
or his cooking, I couldn’t tell.

When we’d all had our fill, we lingered around the table burping bacony breaths and finishing coffee or juice. Chucho got bored searching for cast-off food particles and started pestering Mark for his walk, so they took off.

“Ah-cha!”
Abuelo swallowed the murky
café
dregs in his demitasse and pushed his chair back. “Is another hour before we go to
la iglesia,
” he said innocently. “I wonder what is there to do.”

One by one, we clapped eyes on him.

“¡Corramos!”

He leapt up, getting a head start, and we all raced after him—Dad slowing to grab two Coronas from the fridge— down the hallway and through the sliding door to the players’ porch. God, Father Leone, and my
quinceañero
would have to wait. The Paz family had a domino match to play.

We took two cars to church and split up afterward. The men went home to heat up some leftover
congrís;
the women drove to the banquet hall to meet Señora Flora.

Leda and Janell were already there, carrying out Flora’s instructions for seating arrangements and table decorations. It felt good seeing my
damas de honor
perform some honest work on my behalf.

“Wow! It looks fantastic in here. Thanks, you guys,” I said, really meaning it. “I’d do the same for you.”

“Yes, you will,” warned Leda.

“Right, right. In August.” I grinned.

Flora trotted up to Mom, Abuela, and me looking un-characteristically strained. “Ladies, I’m so glad you’re here. We have caterers, we have cake, we have a sound system, but no flowers.
¿Donde están las flores?
”

Abuela raised her eyebrows at me. I looked accusingly at Mom.

Mom slapped her forehead with a palm. “I knew there was something else . . .” She fished through her purse for the florist’s phone number, in vain, then practically prostrated herself at Flora’s feet. “I should have let you handle the flowers, but Salma promised us such a discount. . . .”

Abuela came through with the listing in her electronic notebook, and Flora handed Mom her cellular phone.

“No answer!” She grabbed my hand. “Come on, Violet, we’ll dash over to the shop. You girls, stay here and hold the fort,” she said to everyone else.

Mom drove across town like one of Sammy Sosa’s homers on its way out of the park. We screeched to a stop in front of Flores R Us and banged on the door, but the shop was closed up tight as a rosebud.

There was nothing to do but get back in the car. Mom sat there with her hands gripping the steering wheel, keys dangling from the ignition, berating herself. “I should’ve known I could never juggle school and kids and parties and everything else too. I’m just a disaster, a disaster, I tell you.” And on and on.

“Mom, Mom,” I cut in. “Chill. You’re doing fine. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t even be having a party.” I patted her shoulder. “Let’s just get back to the hall. I’m sure Señora Flora can . . . nip this in the
bud.
”

She looked at me, unconvinced.

I tried again. “We have better things to do than play ring around the
posy.
”

She held desperately to her frown, which was melting like cheap sealing wax.

And the two-oh pitch: “I say, let’s put the
petal
to the metal and get out of here!”

A smile laminated her face.
“HA!”
she barked, followed by three involuntary tremors. “Petal to the metal. That’s a good one, Vi.”

She fastened her seat belt, put the car in gear, and took us back across Lincolnville under the speed limit.

When we returned to the hall, the flowers had arrived— hundreds of purple and white irises. My backstage contingent was madly stuffing them into glass vases.

“Look, Violet! The stage is set up,” Janell said, breaking away and dragging me to the large riser hung with a purple theater curtain. Flora had really outdone herself. A rented crystal chandelier hung above a white baby grand piano upstage. Colored spotlights shone from the ceiling, and a huge relief map of the world acted as backdrop.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, squeezing Janell’s hand. “I can’t wait to get in costume.”

I didn’t have to wait.

“Violet!” called Mom. “Time to go home and change.”

So she and Abuela and I drove back home.

We arrived to find the men serenely watching the Cubs play the Cards again on TV. “Why aren’t any of you dressed!” Mom yelled.

“Is plenty of time,” said Abuelo, who would be wearing a new white
guayabera
and trousers. I had reminded him to wear shoes, not slippers.

“Sammy’s on deck,” argued Mark, who would be wearing a white-on-white tuxedo with black accents, a white boutonniere, and no Cubs hat.

“
Maldito
monkey suit,” Dad muttered, leaning forward to watch someone get thrown out at second. He would be dressed just like Mark.

Mom didn’t have to say a word. Her glare erupted, venting hot steam and shooting fiery molten lava at the three of them—a look promising a quick ticket to hell. They reacted appropriately.

“On second thought,” said Abuelo, rising, “I should be going.”

“It might take a couple tries to get my bow tie right,” murmured Dad.

Mark just ran.